


Theater Shoes

by Agent C (arh581958)



Category: Marvel, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Alternative Universe - High School, Alternative Universe - Normal High School, Cute!Meet, Fluff, Funny, High School, Humour, M/M, Not-So-First Meeting, Sweet, Theater - Freeform, These dorks, Unreliable Narrator, adorKable boys, clint centric, high school crushing, minor-cinderella motics, tooth-rooting fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-28
Updated: 2016-01-28
Packaged: 2018-05-16 18:45:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5836636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arh581958/pseuds/Agent%20C
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint hates Theater Class. Well, at least until he meets Phil. That isn't what he expected when his shoe went flying off during rehearsal--nooope, not at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Theater Shoes

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the [Flying Shoes](http://otpprompts.tumblr.com/post/138132094148/during-rehearsal-for-the-school-play-person-as) prompt on tumblr. 
> 
> Betaread by the fantabulous [Nerdling_Queen](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Nerdling_Queen/pseuds/Nerdling_Queen/works)~ I loves you dahhling~
> 
> For the confused first 50-ish readers. I'm so sorry. I tried to post this in school and the internet was unstable. It ended up being posted three times, and deleted three times. I'm in the library now. I re-uploaded it again. :D

Theatre, fucking theatre. No matter how much Clint thought about it, it was still theatre, which he was shit at. 

He doesn’t even remember  _ why in the hell _ did he ever think that theatre would be a better elective than Modern Civilizations. At least the last one gave them free popcorn and  _ mandatory _ movies night, albeit the films were black, white, and boring. Popcorn was a way better option than  _ this _ . 

“Get back in formation, dummy!” 

Oh yeah, now he remembered why—Nat, his best friend and ex-girlfriend. It was weird. They were weird. But they were weird together so that made it fine. 

“Aww, choreo, no,” He groaned, seeing everyone in their ‘All in This Together’ blocking for the final song. Their chosen play was obvious. Now, while he wasn’t in the lead or minor lead role, he was cast as one of the basketball players. Which was fine, except  _ this _ dance when they had to pair up with cheerleaders and take the stage in pairs, one by one. Good this that he was pared with Nat.

“Come on, dummy, you’ll miss the cue.” Natasha said, pushing him into position then taking hers. 

The first part was fine. Clint got along well with the moves. And, given that he was nearly always in the back, his mistakes weren’t that noticeable to their director Fury. Fury was a motherfucking hard-ass who sounded like a drill sergeant half the time rather than a theatre director. The man wasn’t present today since it was morning practice. 

Clint danced along to the moves. Thank god for repetitive choreography because it wasn’t too hard to memorize. His body was good with muscle memory. Repetitive moves, good. But partner choreo which was different from the rest? Not good. 

“Alright, Clint,” Natasha whispered, stepping beside him. They were two couples away from taking the center stage. 

“Uhm, no?” Clint tried to say. 

She rolled her eyes and pulled him forward. “Relax, it’s just practice. We’ll fix the glitches as we go along. Ok?” 

“Okay,” Clint agreed with a sigh. Then, they were in the middle of the stage. 

The start wasn’t that bad. It was similar dance steps to the rest of the song except they were doing it in pairs. The next part wasn’t as bad either because most of the dancing went to the people playing the cheerleaders. Basketball peeps like Clint got to stay back and just sway with the music. The last part though, with the flip-kick-clap or was it clap-flip-kick or kick-clap-flip, was hard. 

On the kick, Clint’s beat-up old purple sneakers flew into the air, straight into the audience chairs. 

“Fuck!” He yelled, watching it fly. 

“Concentrate!” Nat hissed at him on the hand-in-hand turn, “Get it later. Now, don’t you dare drop me!” 

Clint didn’t. He lifted her with ease and brought her back down. He limped his way through the rest of the choreography, imbalanced and slipping, with only one shoe. The rest of the song, thank god it was the bridge part already, had him safely in the back of the crowd. 

“Loved the flying shoe effect, Barton,” one of his classmates patted him on the back, laughing, “I’m sure the person sitting on the front row loved it.” 

“Fuck off,” Clint brushed the guy off, flipping him the bird. “At least I didn’t hit anyone!” 

The guy laughed even harder. “Tell that to the guy you hit with your shoe man!” 

Clint paled. He—he hit  _ someone  _ with his  _ shoes _ ? His sticking, glued-together, beat-up old shoe? Jesus, how is this his life? He groaned, burying his face in his hands, and attempted to make himself disappear. Maybe, just maybe, if luck was on his side, he can get away without seeing the person he assaulted. 

No, such luck. 

“Excuse me?” A voice he knew because it was one of the stage manager’s voices, the one who was currently overseeing the props work for the sets, called him from behind. Then, a second later, when he didn’t turn around, a finger tapped him on the shoulder. “Ehrm, Barton?” 

“Coulson?” Clint asked, peeking out his arms, red-faced. “Yeah?” 

“I seem to have something that belongs to you,” the older boy said, somewhat shyly, presenting Clint with his shoe.

Clint’s face grew even hotter. “That’s my shoe,” he said dumbly, “You have my shoe.” 

Coulson blushed too. “Yeah, it kind of… fell from the sky?” 

“Fell from the sky?” Clint sputtered, lowering his arms. “What do you mean  _ it fell from the sky _ ? I fucking hit you with my shoe! God,  _ where _ did I hit you with my shoe?” 

“Uhm, just on my shoulder.” Coulson replied, sounding self-conscious. “It’s not bad really. Over here, see nothing there.” He turned slightly and pointed to a spot near his shoulder. There was a  _ shoeprint _ , a dusty, white-looking, shoeprint near his shoulder blade. 

“Are you blind?!” Clint exclaimed, eyes wide, and redder than before. “There’s a shoeprint on your shirt! Dude, I think it’s chalk. It’s freaking white and the size of my foot!” 

At that, Coulson actually laughed. “Of course it would be the size of your foot. It was your shoe who did it.” He shifted Clint’s shoe from one hand to the other so he can pull on his shirt to look. “Well, would you look at that. It looks like you stomped on me.” He chuckled, patting it. “There, all gone.” 

“Holy Christ,” Clint groused in shame. “I swear, I didn’t mean to hit you! It was an accident. I didn’t mean to hit you with my stick old sh-” and that’s where he stopped because he realized that Coulson was  _ still holding _ his sweaty shoe. “Oh god, you’re still holding it!” He rubbed his palms on his face but still made no move to reclaim in. “That’s gross. How can you be holding it all this time?” 

“Erhm, because I needed to hold on to it so I can give it to you?” 

If it was possible to die of embarrassment,  _ this _ would have been the moment that Clint died and went to wherever the hell people like him went. 

“Please tell me you held it by the laces.” He half-begged, seeing Coulson’s hand firmly underneath the dirty sole. “At least when you brought it over…” 

“Why?” Coulson asked, baffled by the question. “I held it like my other shoes,” he said, putting his finger where the foot would go and holding it by the heel protection. “Like this.” 

Clint didn’t know if he should pale or if his head would explode with blood because  _ Coulson’s fingers _ were touching the inner lining aka the disgusting part of the shoe where his dirty socks rubbed against. Right where he knew he sweated the most. 

“Can you, uh,” He mumbled, mouth too embarrassed to cooperate with him, “maybe give it back to me now?” 

The tip of Coulson’s ears went pink. “Y—yeah,” Coulson answered, unlacing the shoe and pulling out the tongue, “Give me your foot. I’ll put it on for you.” 

“Excuse me?” Clint uttered, appalled. 

“Come on, Barton,” Coulson groused, “Stop being a baby and just give me your foot.” And, ahh, there was the boy who barked out orders backstage and made all the props people scamper to meet their deadlines. 

Clint could do nothing but extend his leg and let Coulson put on his shoe. It was like freaking Cinderella except that he was no princess, there was no ball, but Coulson was still Prince Charming. His breath hitched when Coulson touched his ankle to secure the fit. And, of course, his beat-up purple convers fit him perfectly, lavender socks to match.

“Um, thanks,” He muttered, still feeling tingly from his  _ ankles _ , his ankles dammit. Did ankles feel tingly at all or was it just him? 

Coulson gave him a curt nod, patted him on the knees, then stood up and left. 

Clint sat there, gaping like a fish, like the idiot that he is, watching Coulson’s back (and ass) disappear back into the darkness of the backstage. 

“Well, shit.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry, (not sorry), but I a kinda obsessed with HighSchool!AUs right now. These adorkable boys. They are so adorably dorky! :)) 
> 
>  
> 
> All things holy guys, give me some ideas here.  
> (And C/C comics I can read, seriously.)
> 
> If you have a prompt or an idea, you can [INSPIRE ME](http://arh581958.tumblr.com/submit) on tumblr.


End file.
